


The More the Merrier

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Anal Plug, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Impact Play, Incest, Light Bondage, M/M, No actual watersports, Oral Sex, Paddling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M, mention of watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Mycroft/John/Sherlock Christmas PWP. Warning for incest.Chapter 3.Festive.Sherlock's gift is a festive red. Cross-dressing. Impact play. Dirty talk. Anal. Begging. For MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar Day Nine: Festive.Chapter 4.Exhausted. The lads go to bed. For MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 18: Exhausted.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/361097
Comments: 27
Kudos: 68
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. John's gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar Day Three: The more the merrier.

“Thank you for inviting me, Mycroft,” called John as he peered into the heavy glass tumbler in his hand. The glass held three fingers of amber-coloured whisky, and John knew the spirit was the finest of its kind that he was ever likely to taste in his lifetime. He licked his lips appreciatively.

“I wouldn’t normally say ‘the more the merrier’ when referring to a Holmes Christmas Eve celebration, but you are, as with many things, an exception to our rule,” replied Mycroft from the kitchen.

John stood in the open archway looking onto the magnificently decorated living room. An enormous tree was decked out in dark blue and plum-coloured ribbons and ornaments as well as strings of pearls and purple and blue and gold fairy lights. A toy train was puffing and tooting as it made endless loops around the base of the tree and along a track which ran the whole perimetre of room, travelling through various miniature winter village scenes. Holly and ivy as well as lit candles abounded. A fire roared in the fireplace, and a splendid bearskin hearth rug lay on the floor before it.

John was admiring the whole thing all when he felt fingers taking the glass from his grasp.

He turned.

Sherlock curled one arm around John’s waist. He took a sip of the drink then held it out to the side.

He smiled. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s.

John tasted whisky and mincemeat on Sherlock’s lips as he parted his own. Their tongues touched and slid, caressing and tickling. John took his time, cupping Sherlock’s jaw in both hands and opening and closing his mouth, pressing hard, then soft, demanding and then giving, tilting his head one way and then the other. Sherlock, too, showed no signs of impatience. He made love to John’s mouth, slowly and with characteristic precision, biting John’s bottom lip, sucking it in a way that he knew made John’s head swim because it mimicked what Sherlock’s mouth could do to other body parts.

When the kiss broke, Sherlock and John were smiling.

“Host’s turn!” cried Mycroft blithely. He swooped in as Sherlock fell back.

Sherlock leaned against the side of the threshold.

John saw Sherlock take a long swig from the glass, which was still in his hand. Then John saw and felt nothing but Mycroft Holmes kissing him.

Instinctively, John curled his arms around Mycroft’s neck and pressed the length of his body unusually tight to Mycroft’s. He was more passive here, simply opening his mouth and letting Mycroft have his wicked way with him. The pressure of Mycroft’s kiss was hard to the point of brutal. Their teeth clicked once, but neither was embarrassed. On the contrary, it hinted at biting, which was a very good hint, indeed, as far as John was concerned.

John felt a little lightheaded, but that only made him cling to Mycroft more. Mycroft’s grip on him was equally unforgiving.

And then the kiss was over.

The sudden release was like a plunge into an ice bath after a hot sauna. Pleasurably shocking. Just everything with like Mycroft.

Mycroft studied John’s face, and his lips twisted in a very satisfied smirk.

John stepped back. His gaze lifted. “You’re under it now, Mycroft,” he remarked.

Mycroft looked directly overhead at the clump of greenery and white berries. “So I am,” he said, then he looked over his shoulder.

Sherlock pushed off the wall and held the glass of whisky out to John.

John took it and mimicked Sherlock’s earlier move, stepping back until he could lean against the opposite side of the threshold.

He took a long sip as Sherlock turned Mycroft so that John saw the two in profile. Then their lips came together, and John suspected they forgot all about him.

They were beautiful, Sherlock’s lips sliding over Mycroft’s and Mycroft’s tongue tracing Sherlock’s cupid bow. Tight, closed-mouth pecks and open, wet, sloppy lapping. Hands on the back of heads, guiding. Sherlock’s hair being tugged, Mycroft’s nape being kneaded.

John took another sip and wondered which was intoxicating him more: the whisky or the snogging Holmeses.

The latter. Definitely.

“That’s one tradition successfully observed,” said Mycroft hoarsely when the kiss finally ended. He reached a hand towards John, and John gave him the glass. He downed the remainder of the whisky in one long gulp, then exhaled loudly and said,

“Shall we move onto the exchange of gifts?”

* * *

Sherlock and Mycroft each opened a gift. John opened two. Comments were exchanged. Then John said,

“Mine isn’t something you can hang on a tree. And it’s for the two of you to share.”

If Sherlock and Mycroft were disappointed, they didn’t show it.

John took out his mobile and tapped the screen.

Sherlock and Mycroft’s mobiles beeped and buzzed, respectively.

“That is…,” said Sherlock, openly gawking at the image on his mobile.

“…your arsehole,” finished Mycroft, who was looking similarly at his.

“Yeah,” said John. He took Sherlock’s hand and Mycroft’s hand, and they, without looking up from their phones, stepped closer to him. John brought the two hands to the back of his jeans, to the cleft of his arse. “I’ve been stretching myself with two dildos for a fortnight so that I can take you together tonight. That’s my gift.” Their index fingers were together, the tips pushing into the denim. “My arse, for you to wreck. I’m going to be your little fucktoy tonight.”

Mycroft was behind John. Sherlock was in front of him.

“Oh, John,” they breathed in unison.

John closed his eyes, and for a few moments, all he felt the probing of two fingertips and the anticipatory pleasure it brought. This is what he’d been waiting for, preparing for, and it was going to be so good.

Then Sherlock said, with a note of petulance,

“I want us to play with John’s gift first.”

“For once, I’m not going to advocate delayed gratification,” said Mycroft. “Where would you like us to unwrap our gift, John?”

John shrugged, then looked over his shoulder at Mycroft. “On the rug? By the fire?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mycroft approvingly. “Now!” said Sherlock.

They each kissed him. Then Sherlock raised John’s jumper, exposing his bare torso.

Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers toyed with John’s nipples using his thumbs and wrists to keep the jumper rucked up.

John leant back against Sherlock so that he could put his chin to his chest and watch.

Mycroft dipped his head low. He licked at Sherlock’s fingers and John’s nipple.

It was a supremely erotic sight, complemented by the pleasurable wet caress of Mycroft’s tongue and delightful playful touch of Sherlock’s digits.

And then it got better.

Sherlock held two fingers up in a vulgar gesture, Mycroft licked the valley with a flicking tongue.

“You are such filthy lads,” said John, feeling his half-hard prick go to full mast.

The lusty assault was coming from the other side of his chest, too: Sherlock’s hand never ceased its teasing, rubbing, pinching, teasing of John’s other nipple.

Sherlock offered Mycroft his index finger, Mycroft made a pantomime of courtesan-caliber fellatio on it.

“My prick’s hard, lads,” grunted John in a tone that meant they should do something about it.

Mycroft sucked John’s other nipple while Sherlock unfastened John’s jeans.

“Oh, John,” they groaned when they looked down.

“You both knew from the very first glance at me tonight,” said John.

“It is one thing to deduce that one’s guest isn’t wearing pants,” said Mycroft.

“It’s quite another to confirm it, tactilely, for yourself,” finished Sherlock.

Four hands were in John’s jeans. He kissed their lips each in turn.

“I love this,” he said, humming. “Play with your toy.”

There wasn’t any insincerity in John’s flirty talk: he really did love it, four hands doing very naughty things to him.

Trapped tight against his skin and against each other, the hands fondled John’s bullocks, squeezed his arse, spread his cheeks, rubbed his hips and brushed the side of his prick.

Finally, Sherlock pushed John’s jeans down to thigh-level. Then he rubbed two hands in a V on either side of John’s prick, which was hard and leaking.

“Shall I suck you off first?” asked Mycroft politely.

“Shall _we_ suck you off first?” amended Sherlock with a hard note in his voice.

“No. I’d rather you edge me until you’re both inside me. With the dildoes, on two different occasions, I was able to come without touching my prick. If that doesn’t work, you can wank me off after.”

There was a pregnant silence.

“Did you take a video of it?” blurted Sherlock. “Photos? Of your practise?”

“No,” said John with a chuckle. “Sorry. I had my hands full.” He reached back to curl a hand ‘round Sherlock’s head and bring Sherlock’s mouth to his. He kissed him quick and rough. “But I think it’d be a nice little extra if I came for you like that.” John’s voice became slightly higher pitched, breathy and flirty. “Your little fucktoy squirting like a fountain for you.”

Sherlock and Mycroft groaned again. For a moment, there were four hands on his arse squeezing.

“This is what we’ll be wrecking tonight,” breathed Mycroft, his voice strained.

“Together,” added Sherlock. “Our pricks sliding together inside him.”

Mycroft stepped closer to John. Sherlock whimpered.

“Kiss him,” said John.

John didn’t turn his head to see, but he could hear the wet noise of mouths moving against each other. Sherlock’s hands came ‘round to rub his hips again while Mycroft continued to massage his buttocks.

“You know just what we want for Christmas, John,” said Mycroft when he pulled away. His eyes were blown black with lust and he licked his dry lips with undisguised anticipation.

John grinned. Then he pulled up his jumper and grabbed Mycroft by the back of the head and brought Mycroft’s mouth to his nipple. “And all I want, right now, is my tits sucked,” he growled.

Sherlock was still behind John. With his hands on either side of John’s waist, he’d been kissing and licking down John’s spine until he reached the divot which was to the top of the cleft of John’s arse. He tongued it eagerly.

John turned his head and saw himself reflected in one of the shiny globes on the tree. It was an obscene tableau: his body in profile, his jumper pushed up, his jeans pushed down, naked from neck to knees, Mycroft’s hungry mouth clamped to his chest, sucking him for dear life, Sherlock’s face pressed to the top of his arse, flicking it just as manically. John was leaning forward into Mycroft’s savage bites and hard sucks and stretching himself backward to enjoy Sherlock’s puppy-dog lapping.

And his prick was hanging stiff. Like an ornament.

“What a good little fucktoy am I,” he observed.

The Holmes brothers hummed their agreement.

* * *

“C’mon, Sherlock,” urged John. Mycroft’s prick was deep inside him, and he was ready to be stretched to the fullest.

Sherlock eased his prick inside John very slowly. “Oh, God,” he moaned. “S’good.”

“That’s right,” breathed John. “Come on in, you gorgeous beast, come inside. It’s nice and hot and wet and tight. Perfect for fucking.”

John’s eyes were closed. He forced his body to relax, to welcome the intrusion. It wasn’t very difficult. After all, he’d been practising. But this was far better than rehearsal because the pricks were warm and throbbing and attached to the sexiest creatures on the planet.

He felt Mycroft’s lips on his neck and Mycroft’s sweaty chest plastered to his. Making ‘the Iceman’ sweat was no little accomplishment, and John felt a swell of pride. Making him talk dirty was even better.

“Perfect little Christmas fucktoy, perfect little prickslut, so greedy you need two pricks up your sweet bugger-hole.” Mycroft’s top lip was curled. “So fetching when you beg, too.”

“Oh, please fuck me!” cried John in his teasing falsetto. He opened his eyes and giggled. “Oh, please someone bugger me quick! It’s almost Christmas! I must have my pretty arse filled for Christmas!”

John was atop Mycroft on the bearskin rug. Sherlock was crouched behind them.

John and Mycroft exchanged kisses, letting their tongues tangle as Sherlock pushed his prick deeper into John’s arse.

“O-o-oh,” exclaimed Sherlock in a long, drawn out syllable when his prick was half-sheathed. Then, for reasons unknown to John, Sherlock halted his advance.

John tried to lift his head and twist a bit to look behind him to see if Sherlock was all right, but it was too much. He fell forward instead and kissed Mycroft.

“Make him fuck me, Mycroft,” he whispered into Mycroft’s mouth. “I really do need it.”

“Nonsense,” said Mycroft, as if reading from a script. “I’m not going to wait. Sherlock can take his time, of course, but I’m going to come first inside you, John. I’m going to claim you. After all, I’m the host of the evening’s festivities. And I’ve got the bigger prick as well as the bigger brain...”

Sherlock’s body jerked, then John heard a noise of disgust. “You bloody bastard, you _are_ the bigger prick, Mycroft. We’re coming together, all of us.”

Sherlock’s fog had apparently melted, and after that, John didn’t have long to wait.

With both pricks inside him, the pressure was just right, and John’s own much-neglected prick was ready to erupt.

“I can’t hold out much longer, lads. Kiss. And pop me like a Christmas cracker.”

With a harsh cry, Sherlock came first, then John.

John collapsed onto Mycroft, trembling, skin damp with sweat. Sherlock collapsed onto John in an equal state of dissolution. John heard Mycroft and Sherlock kissing just beside his ear.

Mycroft gave one final, violent thrust upward, his hips bucking hard, and shot his load, Sherlock swallowing any noise that might have escaped his lips.

Sherlock and Mycroft licked John’s neck and jaw, murmuring slightly incoherent endearments as they gently extricated themselves from his body.

Four hands were running along John’s sides and down his back. They petted and stroked him.

“It really was the perfect gift, John,” said Mycroft. “Thank you.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John’s cheek. “Indeed.”

“The more the merrier, I think you said, Mycroft,” teased John.

“Little did I know how right I was,” said Mycroft, running an idle finger through the muck that was trickling down John’s thigh.

“And now?” asked John, watching the trajectory of Mycroft’s finger from his leg to Sherlock’s open mouth.

“That’s a good question,” said Mycroft when Sherlock had licked his finger clean. “If you’re tired, we could wish each other compliments of the season and you and Sherlock could return to Baker Street. You are also both welcome to make use of a guest room for the night. Or…”

John looked at Sherlock. Their eyes met.

“Or we could have a wash and a bite to eat,” suggested John. “And then…”

“And then,” continued Sherlock, “you and I can try out Mycroft’s gifts.”


	2. Mycroft's gifts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's gift lights up the room. Light bondage (heh, heh, that's a pun!), oral, anal plug.
> 
> For MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar Day Four: Lights.

John stepped back, admiring the scene.

Sherlock Holmes was a work of art.

Sherlock Holmes was always a work of art. His aesthetic, which was not a word John would ever use aloud, was an artistic blend of beauty and brilliance and wit, always with a bite, an edge, an acidic sting, but nevertheless, a pleasing, symmetrical, congruous whole.

And now, thought John, as he gazed at the result of his efforts with pride, Sherlock Holmes was a work of _erotic_ art, one that John had sculpted, more precisely, arranged and assembled, with care.

Most of the lights in the room had been switched off, dimmed, or extinguished. A small cadre of candles provided just enough illumination for John to see what he was doing and, more importantly, to see what he’d done.

The Christmas tree still sparkled, but less brightly than earlier as it was missing two strands of purple-coloured lights.

One strand of the cordless lights was wrapped ‘round Sherlock’s wrists. The other was wrapped ‘round Sherlock’s ankles.

Sherlock was nude, kneeling beside the Christmas tree with his hands and feet bound behind him. His eyes were closed, and his prick was half-hard. It was a magnificent prick, long and lean with a slight bend to the left, jutting out of a patch of wiry dark hair. Sherlock was sitting back on his heels with his knees spread wide. His skin glowed.

John really did want to take a photograph.

“You’re beautiful,” he said because he was thinking nothing else.

Sherlock only grunted.

“Indeed, he is. Exquisite,” said a voice behind John.

John looked over his shoulder at Mycroft, who was lying on the floor on his side some distance from them. His dressing gown was open, and he was stroking his prick very slowly as his eyes devoured Sherlock. The fierce lust reflected in his expression was so intense that John had to look away.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was an erotic sculpture.

He was an erotic sculpture and not some other kind of art because he was meant to be observed from, and to provide delight from, all sides. From the front, there was his face, his torso, his thighs, and his prick. From each side, there was his profile. And from the back, there were his hands and feet, encircled by the handsome purple lights. There was also, peeking from out his buttocks, a silver ring, which hinted at Mycroft’s gift to Sherlock.

The thick plug was buried in Sherlock’s arse, and despite his usual cool exterior, Sherlock had been unable to prevent a few joyful noises from escaping his lips when John had inserted it.

From the corner of his eye, John saw Mycroft crawling on all fours, no doubt seeking a better view of the rear.

John didn’t blame him at all.

“I’m going to frig you a bit,” said John. “You know what to say if you want me to stop.”

Sherlock snorted derisively.

A safe word was wholly unnecessary, and everyone in the room knew it. The bonds were not really binding; Sherlock could break them with a sharp tug.

This was not a Houdini act or a power play, it was art.

And sexy Christmas fun.

Nevertheless, the nod to responsibility always freed John in ways he didn’t want to examine too closely.

He knelt before Sherlock and wrapped a slicked hand ‘round Sherlock’s prick and began to pump.

Sherlock exhaled noisily and tried, in vain, to widen his stance even further. His hips bucked towards John in a rather clumsy fashion.

“Oh, you’re ready, aren’t you?” cooed John.

With just a few strokes, Sherlock’s prick was stiff as a board. John sank his free hand into the pocket of his dressing gown and brought out his gift from Mycroft, the other half of Sherlock’s plug.

That is, the remote control.

“Low,” said John as he tapped the control.

Sherlock’s body flinched, but after a few moments, he seemed to settle into the sensation.

The whir was very quiet.

Discreet.

One would hardly expect a toy selected by Mycroft to be otherwise.

John was still stroking Sherlock’s prick, albeit slower as much of his attention was on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s torso erupted in a thin sweat, and John licked a stripe from shoulder to fluttering pulse.

“Good vibrations, eh?” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock jerked his head away, cracked one eye, and shot John a look that said ‘now is not the time for puns.’

“Oh, now, now,” replied John in a teasing tone that was not without a filament of steel. “You’d better let me have my fun… _or I’ll blow your arse right up_.”

Sherlock made a strained noise and pinched his eyes closed. He looked like a saint about to be tortured.

Saint Sebastian, of course.

John then saw that Mycroft had moved again. He was staring directly at Sherlock’s arse.

John dropped the control on the floor and released Sherlock’s prick. He put both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and eased him forward. Then he reached behind Sherlock with both hands and spread his cheeks, offering Mycroft a clearer view of the buzzing plug.

“Thank you, John,” murmured Mycroft, without looking away or even blinking.

“It was such a thoughtful gift, Mycroft,” said John as he eased Sherlock back to his original position. “I know we’re going to get so much use out of it.”

Sherlock hummed. So did the plug.

“Now, pulse,” said John. This was the setting he suspected would loosen Sherlock’s stiff upper lip.

And he was right.

After a few moments, Sherlock’s jaw dropped, and he let out a long, hollow moan that seemed to fill the whole room.

And the plug continued its song.

Buzz…buzz…buzz.

“What a Christmas carol,” said John, then adding in a soft singing voice, “It’s like a fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He dropped the control once more and rubbed Sherlock’s shoulders. As much as he wanted to savour the sight of Sherlock and as keen as he was to play with his toy, this wasn’t going to be a protracted affair.

Sherlock’s prick wasn’t flagging, but John gave it a couple of hard strokes for good measure.

Then he got to his feet and opened his dressing gown.

He could’ve blindfolded Sherlock, there were plenty of makeshift options about, but it wasn’t necessary.

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed when John painted his lips with his prickhead.

Sherlock’s tongue swiped the head.

“Lovely lolly, isn’t it? Suck. You know you’re gagging for it.”

John gripped Sherlock’s hair by the roots as Sherlock parted his lips.

“Oh, God, yes, John,” said Mycroft, suddenly coming out of his lust stupor. “Fuck his mouth, hard, deep, make him choke on it.”

Despite Mycroft’s urging, John took it slow and shallow at first, trying to match his thrusts to rhythm of the buzzing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he sang again.

But then Mycroft was beside John. He snatched up the control and tapped it.

“Medium. Pulse.”

Sherlock whined as the intermittent buzz grew louder.

“My turn,” said Mycroft gruffly.

John stepped aside.

Mycroft had left his dressing gown on the floor. He was complete nude standing before a kneeling, bound Sherlock, holding Sherlock’s head, and shoving his prick over and over into Sherlock’s mouth.

Once again, John wanted to take a photograph.

With the Christmas tree behind them and the candlelight all about them, they made an exquisite tableau.

“Let’s share,” offered Mycroft after a few thrusts.

And so they took turns feeding Sherlock their pricks, and he took them in his mouth and let them make use of his orifice indiscriminately.

Compared to John, Mycroft was rougher, harder, deeper, and true to his word, he made Sherlock choke on it more than once.

When John was close, very close, an idea struck.

“Mycroft.”

John pulled out and rested a halting hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. Then he spat on his hand, bent low, and jerked himself to release, spraying Sherlock’s chin and chest with streaks of come.

Mycroft mimicked him, adding his own paint to the canvas.

They stood admiring their work, the beauty of skin and sex and light, for a moment, but only for a moment.

Because then grey eyes were fixing them with a wild stare.

And art became flesh.

What happened next happened within the span of a few breaths.

With a growl, Sherlock freed his wrists and snatched up the control and shut off the vibrating plug. He wriggled out of the bonds at his ankles and twisted his legs in front of him. He laid back with his legs splayed.

John didn’t hesitate. He pounced on Sherlock’s prick and began sucking at once.

Sherlock rolled to one side. John rolled with him.

Then John heard several wet noises: one of an arse being unplugged followed by more of an arse being replugged with a hungry tongue.

Sherlock chuckled and said, in a raw voice,

“It’s nice to be adored at Christmas."


	3. Sherlock's gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's gift is a festive red. Cross-dressing. Impact play. Dirty talk. Anal. Begging. Mention of watersports. No actual watersports. 
> 
> For MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar Day Nine: Festive.

The hour was turning from very late to very early, signalling a tip from lusty romp into giddy orgy for John, Mycroft, and Sherlock.

But first, they’d been sensible. They’d all had a proper wash. Mycroft had brewed a pot of strong coffee, of which they’d all amply partaken. They’d also eaten, John more than Sherlock and Mycroft, but still all were adequately nourished according to their appetites.

And so, when the subject of Sherlock’s gifts to Mycroft and John was raised, the three were ready, willing, and able to embrace the farce wholeheartedly.

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” cried Mycroft in a high-pitched voice. He was on his back, lying across the track of the model train which encircled the room. His wrists and ankles were bound with the ribbon in which his gift had been wrapped. He flailed like a helpless insect as the little engine puffed and tooted around the bend. “Whatever shall I do?”

“Don’t fret! I’ll save you!” shouted John, and he lifted Mycroft off the tracks just as the engine was about to ram into him.

Sherlock was folded in an armchair, watching with undisguised delight.

“Thank you every so much!” sighed Mycroft with simpering coquettishness.

John carried Mycroft closer to Sherlock and set him down equidistance between the armchair and an empty straight chair, which John took for himself. He cut Mycroft’s bonds and asked,

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Mycroft stood with one hand on a cocked hip, allowing Sherlock and John to drink him in.

“Santa Baby,” he replied in a breathy falsetto.

He was wearing Sherlock’s gift, well, all save the Santa cap, which was on John’s head.

The gift had two layers. The outer layer was a short, red-with-white-fur-trim dress with a thick black belt, a plunging V neck, and buttons up the front. Mycroft also wore thigh-high white socks with little red bows at the top. His lips were painted with red lipstick.

He blew a kiss to Sherlock, who tapped his mobile. Then Mycroft turned ‘round, his back to Sherlock and John, and began to sway to the music.

“Santa Baby, just slip a sable under the tree for me…”

He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and John and mouthed,

“…been an awful good girl. Santa Baby, and hurry down my chimney tonight.”

Sherlock turned the volume down on the song as John said,

“Your lips say you’ve been an awful good girl, baby, but,” John reached out and lifted the hem of the dress, “your arse says NAUGHTY.”

Mycroft’s red knickers did, indeed, say NAUGHTY in a curling, sparkly gold script; it was part of the inner layer of Sherlock’s gift.

John grabbed Mycroft’s arse.

Mycroft squeaked.

“Oh, just a little naughty!”

John bent forward and bit at Mycroft’s buttocks while Mycroft wriggled and made sweet little noises of mock surprise and pleasure.

“C’mere,” said John. He sat up and patted his thigh. “Sit on my lap and tell me the naughty things you’ve done.”

Mycroft perched dainty on John’s thigh, and John slipped a hand beneath the dress and knickers to fondle his prick. With one finger, he traced the cock ring which was keeping Mycroft’s own release in check until the very last moment.

“Well, I’ve only really done one naughty thing,” said Mycroft in a child-like voice. He bit the tip of his finger and looked idly around the room.

“What’s that?” asked John.

“Diddle my brother.”

Sherlock stifled a snort. So did John.

“That’s very naughty, baby,” said John when he’d recovered himself. He removed his hand from Mycroft’s prick and brought it up to the fur neckline of the dress, teasing Mycroft’s skin with one finger. “How do you diddle your brother?”

“I sneak into his bed while he’s sleeping and play with his willy. I just keep it warm.”

John hummed. “In your mouth?”

“And my hole. When he wakes up, he gives me a treat.” Mycroft licked his lips.

“Show me, baby.” John kissed Mycroft’s chest. “Show me how you diddle your brother.”

Mycroft rose and sashayed over to Sherlock, who had already opened his dressing gown and was slicking his stiff prick. Mycroft turned ‘round and squatted. Sherlock lifted the back of the Santa dress and yanked the red knickers down. Then with one hand on Mycroft’s waist, he guided him down.

“Like this,” said Mycroft as he impaled himself. “I love him so much I always keep his willy warm.”

Sherlock began to thrust up. “You filthy prickslut. You can’t get enough, can you?”

“No!” exclaimed Mycroft. Then he bit his lip.

“Say it,” ordered Sherlock.

“I’m a filthy prickslut!” cried Mycroft. “Oh, oh, oh!”

“Just in bed?” prompted John, whose prick was already hard at the sight of Mycroft in the Santa dress bouncing in Sherlock’s lap with his red lips in a perfect O. “You just take care of his morning wood?”

Mycroft’s eyelashes fluttered. “No,” he said, drawing the syllable out. He looked behind at Sherlock. “Sometimes, when he’s out, I find him and, oh, oh, beg him to take me to the gents and bugger me.”

“You need that hole filled all the time, don’t you?” growled Sherlock. John saw both his hands were under Mycroft’s dress now. He must’ve pinched Mycroft hard because Mycroft squeaked.

“Yes, I ache for it all the time! After he comes, sometimes I plug myself so I can walk around with his spunk inside me all day!”

“Oh, you are a naughty thing,” said John huskily.

“Sometimes,” continued Mycroft. “I text him late at night and he meets me in park, and I suck him off in the dark. Anyone could catch us, anyone could see, we could be arrested, but I don’t care. I need his prick. In my mouth. In my arse. When he’s taking a shower, when he’s taking a piss, I don’t care. I just want to pet it and make it hard and have it in me.”

John licked his lips. “Your brother bought you that pretty new frock?”

“Yes! For Christmas! And more!”

Sherlock’s hands came forward and unbuckled the belt of the dress, slipped it from the loops, and let it drop to the floor. Then he unbuttoned the top three buttons and pulled the sides of the bodice apart to reveal gold sparkly stars covering Mycroft’s nipples. At the centre of each were three gold chains from which dangled teardrop crystals.

“Very pretty, baby,” said John. “He got you some jewelry.”

“Yes!” Mycroft raised his arms overhead and stretched, then he brought his hands to the stars and toyed with chains. “I love playing with them. My brother’s so good to me.”

Sherlock moaned and pinched his eyes shut.

Mycroft looked behind him again. “Oh, I think you’re ready, aren’t you? To fill me with your spunk?”

“Just spunk?” asked John, standing and moving in front of Mycroft. “Nothing else?”

“Well…” Mycroft turned back toward John. He suddenly looked shy. He bit his fingertip.

“He piss on you?” asked John harshly.

“Just once. When I was very, very naughty. He threw me in the tub and pissed all over me.”

“Oh, fuck,” groaned Sherlock, his voice shaking.

“You like it?” asked John.

“Oh, no,” protested Mycroft.

With one swift, violent motion, John grabbed Mycroft by the hair and yanked his head back and looked into his wild eyes.

“Don’t lie, baby. It’s very, very naughty.”

Sherlock moaned louder, and his hips bucked erratically.

Mycroft sniffed, then burst out, “I loved it! I wanted to suck him off right there. But I didn’t. Because he was angry.”

“Why was he angry, baby?” asked John, still holding Mycroft’s head fast.

Mycroft hesitated.

“Why, baby?!” pressed John.

“Because I’d just fucked his boyfriend!”

Sherlock cried out. So did Mycroft.

As soon as Sherlock had spent, John jerked Mycroft out of Sherlock’s lap and onto the floor.

Mycroft landed on hands and knees.

“Fucking boyfriends is naughty, baby,” said John.

“I know.” Mycroft looked up. “But his boyfriend’s cock is so thick. So delicious. I couldn’t help myself.”

John stepped back and opened his bathrobe.

“Like this?”

Mycroft eyed John’s prick with mad hunger. “Yes,” he breathed. “Let me suck it. Just the head. Just the tip.”

Mycroft advanced, crawling. John retreated, taunting.

“How bad you want it, baby?”

“So bad. Give it to me. Please.”

They moved around the room like this.

At one point, Mycroft pivoted and lifted his arse high in the air, pulling up the dress. The knickers were a bunched cord of silk around his waist and down the centre of his arse. Sherlock’s come was drying on the backs of his thighs.

“Just put it in me,” he begged. “Baby needs it. Right here.” He wiggled.

“No lube?”

“Don’t care. Fuck me raw. Make me bleed. Red’s festive.”

John was tempted to give in, but he didn’t want the play to be over yet.

“No. Turn around and show me your pretties.”

Mycroft turned back and unbuttoned the dress.

“Wait,” said John. He found the lipstick, then carefully reapplied it to Mycroft’s lips. “Better.”

Sherlock tapped his mobile and raised the volume of the song, which had been on repeat very softly in the background the whole time.

Mycroft played with the dangling crystals with one hand and sank the other in his knickers. He threw his head back and dragged his tongue ‘round his lips while he pumped up and down and played with himself and mouthed the lyrics.

“I'll wait up for you, dear, Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.”

John looked over. Sherlock was sitting on the arm of the chair now, his legs splayed. He was fondling himself in much the same way that Mycroft was.

“You are very pretty, but naughty babies don’t get what they want just because they want it. You fucked your brother and his boyfriend. And I don’t think you’re sorry one bit,” said John. “Was it fun?”

“Oh, yes. I teased my boyfriend’s brother ‘til he bent me over the kitchen table and fucked me. Then my brother came home and caught us and dragged me down the hall and threw me in the tub and…”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft shivered. “…pissed all over me and called me a whore and prickslut and all the rest.”

“And now?”

Mycroft shrugged. “And now I crawl into their bed and they share me. I keep their willies warm, and they make me feel good and give me prezzies.”

“Naughty,” pronounced John. “Naughty babies need a good paddling. Go and bend over your brother’s lap.”

Mycroft groaned. Sherlock dropped into the straight chair. John found Sherlock’s gift to him, well, one of two, the proper gift was a new jumper that was safely folded in a dresser drawer in Baker Street.

The very improper gift was a paddle, perfect for striking a naughty bottom.

It took a few moments for the three of them to get settled.

Mycroft was bent over Sherlock’s lap, his dress bunched up, his knickers pulled down.

“Look at that bottom,” said John. He rubbed it.

“Lovely baby,” cooed Sherlock. He rubbed Mycroft’s bottom, toe. “I can’t resist playing with it.” He stuck a lubed finger up Mycroft’s hole. He twisted his hand this way and that, making Mycroft whimper and break out in a sweat.

Sherlock pulled his finger out of Mycroft as soon as John was in position.

“Here we go, baby.” John gave it all he had.

WHAM!

Mycroft cried out.

After nine strokes, John stopped. “There.” He grabbed Mycroft’s buttock as Mycroft hissed. “A festive red.”

“Not red enough. Two more,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft mewled. John struck. Twice.

Then, without a word, Sherlock dumped Mycroft onto the rug.

John fell behind Mycroft, taking the lubricant from Sherlock and quickly coating his shaft. “Baby’s going to get a Christmas treat!” he sang as he lifted Mycroft’s arse.

Sherlock got on his knees in front of Mycroft. He lifted Mycroft’s head by the hair and brought Mycroft’s mouth to his erect prick.

Sherlock fucked Mycroft’s mouth. John fucked Mycroft’s hole.

As they thrust, they tore the dress and snapped the knickers from Mycroft’s body. When he was naked between them, save for the white socks and stars and the lipstick, John began to croon,

“Think of all the fun I’ve missed. Think of all the pricks I haven’t kissed. Oh, yeah, baby, your hole’s so sweet. Sloshing around in there with your brother’s spent candy. Mm. I’m going to add my candy to the mix.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sherlock. “Make a naughty baby sweet.”

They flooded Mycroft then withdrew and turned him over onto his back.

“Seems a shame,” said John, studying Mycroft’s limp form, “To waste a good prickslut. Especially at Christmas. You like tongue-fucking, naughty baby?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mycroft in a slurred whisper. Somehow even in his dazed state, he got his knees bent and his feet on the floor and was able to raise his hips lasciviously. “Sometimes, my brother lets me eat his arse for breakfast.”

“Well, you’re going to show me how good you are at tongue-fucking, and since you’ve been such a good baby at taking your punishment, I’m going to take off your bracelet and suck your baby lolly.”

Mycroft’s body began to shudder in anticipation. He chanted softly,

“Oh, oh, oh…”

Sherlock sat on Mycroft’s face. “Quiet, baby. Put that mouth to much better use. Oh, yeah, that’s right. Deeper, baby. Oh, yeah, that’s it. Deeper, deeper, don’t stop, keep licking…”

John pulled a bit at the nipple ornaments, then turned his attention Mycroft’s cock ring.

Mycroft’s prick was almost purple.

John licked his lips and bent his head.

“So festive, baby,” he said as he unfastened the ring. “I hope Santa brought you everything you wanted…”


	4. The end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads go to bed. 
> 
> For MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 18: Exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my gentle pervs for your kind words and encouragement. If you celebrate Christmas, have a very merry one. And if you don't, I wish you all the best in the New Year.

Christmas Day had already dawned when they decided to call it a night.

Sherlock and John accepted Mycroft’s offer of use of the guest suite, which boasted a luxurious bath and enormous bed.

With each step, fatigue settled heavier on John. He was grateful for the first turn at the shower because he feared he might nod off otherwise and remain for who knows how many hours asleep in a state of debauched filth.

The hot shower felt wonderful as did the scouring John gave his person. He tied a towel ‘round his waist and let Sherlock have his turn. When John heard the water being turned off, he entered.

‘Hey’ was all he said. It was all he needed to say. He dropped his towel.

Sherlock stepped back. John stepped forward. They kissed until Sherlock’s back hit the tiled wall.

John ground his lower body into Sherlock’s.

“All right?” called Mycroft.

John broke the kiss long enough to reply, “C’mere.”

Soon John was sandwiched tight between Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Yeah,” he mumbled against Sherlock’s lips as Mycroft licked at his neck.

John rubbed against Sherlock until his prick was hard, until all their pricks were hard, and they all came again from nothing more than rutting as one.

After another wash, they moved to the bed.

“Stay?” asked John of Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who nodded.

John laid down, exhausted. His head hit the pillow and sleep took him at once.

* * *

John wasn’t certain if it was a dream or not. He woke and sensed, more than saw, a soft prick in front of him.

The prick was upside down.

Legs going up. Torso going down.

Nevertheless, John closed his eyes took the head in his mouth and gently suckled it like a baby with a comforter. It did bring him comfort, the comfort of a mouth on his own prick.

Without releasing the prick, John reached an arm forward and one back. He felt a cold trickle on both index fingers. His fingers found holes and began to tease them.

John released the prick and rolled onto his back with mouth open.

And then the dream began in earnest.

John kept his eyes closed. He suckled whatever prickhead was pressed to his lips. He welcomed the thick shafts over and over into his mouth. He filled whatever hole his hands found with one, two, three fingers.

He heard his name. He heard other words: fuck, good, oh, more, please, yes.

A tongue was soon buried in John’s arse, wet, hot, wriggling. It felt so bloody good.

Then there was a mouth by John’s ear, whispering,

“John. Video?”

“Yes, you pervy bastards,” mumbled John. Or something like it.

A few moments late, there were two tongues were in his arse.

The pleasure was surreal. John lifted his mouth out of the bedclothes to growl,

“Kiss it and make it better, pricksluts! I must have my arse eaten on Christmas and the more the merrier!”

And, somewhere, bells tolled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
